


A view of me on my knees

by faultyfireflowers



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Eivor’s love language is storytelling, F/M, Female Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Hate Sex, Light Dom/sub, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Protective Basim, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faultyfireflowers/pseuds/faultyfireflowers
Summary: (SPOILERS for Assassin’s Creed Valhalla ending)Eivor’s moments of weakness are Basim’s windows of opportunity. Or, Basim changes tactics and finds another way to be Havi’s undoing.(Non-con warning for chapter 5)
Relationships: Eivor/Basim Ibn Ishaq
Comments: 19
Kudos: 82





	A view of me on my knees

He comes to find her after the battle. After the disastrous parlay with King Aelfred. 

Eivor reclines on a self-indulgently large pile of furs that barely dulls the all-consuming coldness seeping up from the flagstones in this isolated corner of Cyne Belle fortress. The chill sets into her bones slowly but inexorably. Nevertheless, the appealing warmth of the bonfires below does not compel her to join in the festivities. The argument with Sigurd and Fulke’s betrayal leave a bitter taste in her mouth, and she cannot find the heart to share mead with rowdy warriors. Not tonight. Instead, she has chosen this quiet spot of rest high up a winding tower. It’s only reachable by undertaking a series of risky jumps, but she is not surprised that such obstacles are no deterrent for Basim. 

Eivor feels the familiar sensation of prickling goose flesh as his observant eyes examine her, evaluating her marks of battle. She knows she is a mess and wears the signs of hard fighting as badges of honor. A film of dirt, oil, and ash coats her face and armor, but she lays at total ease even as blood from a dozen small wounds paints her skin. It gives a ghoulish quality to the toothy smile she greets him with. 

By contrast, Basim’s white robes remain pristine. He looks untouched by the assault, and she would think him a coward who feared battle if not for the fact that he had fought at her side, curved blade twirling faster than her eyes could follow. The only mark marring his skin is a faint purple blotch on his left cheek, a fading imprint that exactly matches the scabbed-over knuckles on Eivor’s right hand. 

She gestures at the bruise languidly. “Come to return the favor now that you’ve secured Sigurd’s good graces for yourself?” 

Basim ignores the blatant bait, posing his own question instead. “You are missing the revelries? Geadric and his men sing your praises to the sky. I did not take you for a modest hero.” 

“There are aspects of the after-battle haze I do not care for,” she says, suddenly finding herself too weary to continue their usual snide banter. “Men often behave stupidly when drink washes away all sense except for the thrill of victory.” 

“Wise words. I do not partake myself. May I?” 

She shrugs. It is not an invitation but an acquiesce. Nevertheless he fluidly takes a seat on the stone floor next to her, seemingly unbothered by the cold. He crosses his legs at the ankle and tilts his head back, watching his warm breath form clouds against a backdrop of stars. Too exhausted to question his motives, Eivor relaxes back against the furs, joining his quiet contemplation of the night sky. 

“I thought you pursued Fulke?” 

“She is surprisingly elusive,” Basim sighs. “But there remains a promising trail. One that it is best to pursue by the light of day.” 

“That must be frustrating for you. A Hidden One outwitted by a madwoman.” The words sound overly biting even to her own ears, but they slide off her tongue easily. It has been a day full of trials. Some part of her wants to crack Basim’s stoic facade, to see the same pain she feels reflected in his eyes. 

“Do not look for enemies amongst friends, Eivor,” Basim says. His voice is soft and low, but full of warning. “I, too, worry for Sigurd and wish for his safe return.”

“I am sorry, Basim.” She surprises herself with the apology. “Today has been…” 

“I understand. There is no feeling more painful than fearing for one you love. In truth, I came here tonight that I might offer the simple comfort of companionship, though I feel now I may be intruding. I will leave you to your thoughts.”

“Basim, wait—” Before she even thinks, she grabs his arm, stopping him from rising to his feet. His eyes flick from her hand to her face, a glance that is searching and calculating and surprisingly soft in the dim glow of torchlight. It is a hungry look. She feels that she has unwittingly exposed a weakness, but forges ahead anyway. “Stay. I could use a friend tonight, I think.”

He inclines his head slightly and gives her a small smile, settling back against the stone wall. Though he seems comfortable enough, she casts a doubtful glance at the summery material of his Hidden Ones garb. He has come to offer friendship. It is only right that she should treat him like a friend. 

“You cannot sit there all night though, you will surely freeze to death,” Eivor says after a beat of silence. “Come, share these furs and tell me a story.”

“A story?” Basim asks quizzically, but promptly slides over to take a seat on the furs beside her. Although apparently eager to escape the touch of cold stone, he radiates heat and his larger frame means that they must press together slightly to share the space, shoulder against shoulder and thigh against thigh. Eivor almost welcomes the proximity, instinctively leaning into the warmth despite herself. 

“It can be anything. Somewhere you’ve been. Something you’ve seen. A tale passed down by your people. Weave me a tapestry of words.”

After a moment of thought, he does. He speaks of his homeland, far away and sunlit. A glistening city larger than Lunden, buildings the size of castles filled with scrolls, burning heat that lingers through the night, grand marketplaces filled with people from everywhere, sweet sun-warmed fruits that stain the lips, an ocean made of sand. She listens intently at first, trying to absorb every word of this strange and wonderful place. Soon, however, she finds herself paying more attention to the soft glow in his eyes as he reminisces and the velvet tone of his voice. The way his lips curve around unfamiliar words and names, phrases for which he cannot find a translation. Enraptured, she gradually and subconsciously leans forward, as if bringing herself closer to the fleeting images conjured by his words. First her chin rests on his shoulder, then her head, and the rest soon follows. By the time his words slow and melt into silence, she leans fully against him with her face buried against his chest, nearly in his lap.

“It sounds beautiful, Basim,” she murmurs softly, lips moving against the fabric of his white tunic. Sleep clouds her thoughts too heavily for her to feel any embarrassment. She is simply content with the warmth and comfort of having another person near. “You are a true wordsmith.”

“Quite a compliment from Eivor the poet,” he replies teasingly, but his voice is warm. “Sigurd often says the gods meant for you to be a skald but you are too stubborn to be anything but a drengr.”

“Please, do not speak of my brother or the gods,” she groans. “I have heard enough of them for one day.” Basim chuckles. 

“As you command, my dear Wolf-Kissed.” There is a note of gentle sarcasm buried in his words, but Eivor’s train of thought abruptly evaporates as he carefully wraps a hand around the back of her neck, cradling her head to his chest. She stiffens automatically at the sensation of a potential threat. As if sensing her distress, Basim begins to draw soothing circles with his thumb along her neck, a simple pattern that seems to diffuse all the tension in her body. His fingers are warm, deft, and easily span across her neck. It’s a feeling she finds oddly comforting. Absolute security in a position of absolute vulnerability. 

“What is this seidr of the fingers?” She pulls away just enough to meet his eyes and shoot him a lopsided grin. “Have you cast a spell on me, Basim?” 

“Hmm, do you think I will so easily reveal the secrets of my magic?” He responds in kind, eyes twinkling with a playful mischief she has rarely seen from him. “Your curiosity is admirable, but there can also be great value in enjoying something without question on occasion.”

“Just for tonight, then, I suppose I can allow it,” she says, narrowing her eyes but letting herself lean back against his chest with a sigh of contentment. 

Calm nights are rare enough, and today she is willing to take every moment of peace she can find. Even if that peace arrives delivered by the hands of a man she cannot quite bring herself to trust. Unexpectedly, Basim begins to hum softly to himself. The tune is unfamiliar but melancholy sweet, and the low vibrations of his voice rumble through his chest into hers. The soothing sensation of his voice and fingers, the far-away noise of the ongoing festivities, the flickering torchlight, the softness and warmth of their makeshift bed: slowly, indiscernibly, it lulls her into a heady state of drowsiness bordering on sleep. 

She is half-dreaming when his fingers weave themselves gently into her hair and his other hand wraps around her waist, lingering there for a moment before sliding under her tunic to explore the bare skin of her midsection with a tender, driving curiosity. 

“Mm? Basim, what—” 

“Shhh, Wolf-Kissed. All is well.” 

She stirs faintly at the change but does not recoil in alarm. The alluring stillness of slumber weighs down her limbs, and for some unknown reason she doesn't mind his wandering touches. Here, high up in this hidden corner remote from the constant concerns for her brother and her clan, she is free to indulge. To enjoy without question, for once, this moment that feels only of softness, warmth, and being cared for. Even if it is nothing more than two warriors seeking momentary comfort in one another, even if it is only a lie. She does not care, and there is freedom in that. 

“Very well,” she whispers simply, resettling against him. Once again, she allows her mind to slip into that weightless, timeless moment suspended between sleeping and waking. She feels, distantly, the sensation of Basim’s sure, strong fingers running over her skin like a soothing balm. She welcomes it. 

As if memorizing every inch of skin, he delicately touches her neck, her stomach, her legs. Learning her curves and sharp angles, the indentations of her spine and each groove between her ribs. Each touch somehow both quiets her mind and sets her skin aflame. His fingers navigate her skin easily, so large in comparison to her lean frame that her mind wanders to how those deft fingers might feel elsewhere. It leaves her hungry. It leaves her with longing burning in her stomach. Time seems to fall away altogether, but enough time passes that she has grown familiar with his slow, deliberate ministrations by the time one hand gently grasps her throat. She twitches slightly, suppressing the age-old intuition to fight against the grip of a predator, but relaxes at the low, reassuring noise that resonates deep in his chest. 

“Trust me,” he murmurs in a voice like silk. And she does, without really considering whether she should. 

Basim’s grip on her neck is gentle but insistent, ever present but never enough to constrict breath. It is an unspoken claim of something nameless, something that balances on a knife’s edge between protection and control. Whatever it is, Eivor relishes it. There is peace in being utterly constrained by someone else’s embrace. All of her usually always-alert senses are muted, speaking instead of only one thing:  _ Basim, Basim, Basim.  _ When his fingers shift and press down ever so slightly, she cannot help the small contented sound that escapes her lips. 

“Mm, is that what you like? I thought so,” he chuckles, lips brushing the shell of her ear. Of course it is a deliberate test— everything always is with Basim. She loathes it. She loves it. His warm breath fans across her neck, and she longs for him more than she can remember wanting anything. And yet. And yet uncertainty lingers at the edge of her mind, a wariness she cannot shake off. A shadow of a memory warning her not to give herself over entirely into this man’s hands. 

“I don’t know… I’ve never… not like this.”

“My dear, relax. I swear I will not harm you. Let me ease your troubles, hm? You have earned one pleasant night, little raven.” His other hand has found its way back to her hair, stroking gently. Coaxing agreement from her lips. 

Is this what these Christians mean when they talk about making a deal with the devil?

She hesitates, then nods once. 

“Good,” he says, and she tries to ignore the way her heart thrills at that one simple word. A welcome distraction arrives in the form of Basim’s lips on hers. He has one hand behind her head and the other on her throat, but the kiss itself is achingly gentle and sweet. His lips move slowly against hers, even as she longs for more. For harsh and frantic. It is almost torture, a farce of tenderness designed to frustrate her and leave her wanting. 

Eivor tries to muffle the low whine at the back of her throat, to no avail. She can practically  _ feel _ the smugness that radiates from Basim in response. 

“Greedy little thing. Perhaps I will teach you some patience,” he chides softly, pulling away and placing a halting finger on her lips as she tries to follow. Raising an eyebrow in challenge, she locks eyes with him as she deliberately takes his finger into her mouth and swirls her tongue around it. She watches in satisfaction as his gaze visibly darkens, his voice dropping to nearly a growl, “That will have to wait for another time, I think.” 

This time when their lips meet, it is like waves crashing on a rocky shore. She barely keeps pace as he hungrily captures her mouth, letting out a soft moan when he bites down hard on her lower lip. As she tastes the iron tang of her own blood, his grip on her throat suddenly tightens and he deepens the kiss. It is harsh, bruising, and selfish, and it is exactly what she wants from him. The world around her gradually grows more cloudy. Everything is a far-away blur, except for the man whose grasp simultaneously anchors and dizzies her. She’s floating and drowning at his fingertips. Is her vision darkening around the edges?

With a final painful twist of his teeth, Basim pulls away and relaxes his grip just enough to allow her some air. She gasps for breath as he murmurs indistinct words of reassurance that warm her ears. He runs a hand through her hair soothingly, an abrupt shift in tone that leaves her reeling.

His voice is intoxicatingly soft as he whispers, “tell me how it feels to taste your own blood on my lips, Wolf-Kissed. Do you have any pretty words for me?” Sense seems to have deserted her entirely as she stares back at him blankly, blood trickling down her chin, aching lips still slightly parted. 

His laugh is mockingly affectionate and his touch painfully tender as he wipes the blood from her mouth with the side of his thumb. He studies her face like an artist admiring his work. Then he sighs softly. “It is a shame, in truth. I would very much like to hear you ask for more. Would you beg for me, I wonder?”

“Wouldn’t you like that,” Eivor scoffs, finally finding her voice. It is not really an answer. She knows the answer. It is written on her face, in the frantic pounding of her heart, in the warmth that has pooled between her thighs. Just as sure as she knows her name, she knows that tonight she would be on her knees for Basim in an instant if he asked it of her. 

By the pleased look on his face, Basim knows it too. 

“In time, my dear,” he says with no trace of doubt. 

“I have had enough of your honey-words, Basim.” She tangles her fingers in his hair and  _ pulls _ , grinning with satisfaction as he snarls but shifts his weight in an unmistakable betrayal of his arousal. “I want your fingers inside me.” 

“So vulgar, Eivor. You make me blush,” he replies sardonically but moves faster than she anticipates, pulling her into his lap so that she faces him. The new position forces her to straddle both his thighs, spreading her own legs wide. She instinctively loops her arms around his neck to maintain her somewhat precarious balance. 

He wastes no time in unfastening her trousers, clever fingers stealing between her legs without warning. Half-expecting him to continue his unbearable teasing, she jerks forward in surprise when he quickly curls two fingers inside her, just forcefully enough to provide the tinge of pain she desperately craves. Her momentum carries her towards him and she buries her face against his neck, rocking back against his fingers with a wantonness that shocks her. 

“No, no, no, that will not do.” Basim’s fingers go infuriatingly still inside her as he grasps her chin with his other hand, pulling her away from her place of concealment. His grip is like iron, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I want to see your face when you fall apart for me.” 

She holds his gaze stubbornly, determined not to show how affected she is by his words and his movements. His face is irritatingly impassive. Though his eyes gleam with lust, he wears his usual taunting smirk as he studies her face intently. It is a losing game. Despite her best efforts, Eivor’s willpower crumbles at Basim’s talented touch and the demands of her own body. Before long, she bites her lip and throws her head back as she shudders and falls apart on his fingers. 

“Gods, Basim,” she pants as he slows his pace, working her through the waves of her climax. She melts forward into his arms, basking in the warmth that floods her. A blissful haze clouds her thoughts so heavily that she doesn’t notice Basim’s movement until he raises his fingers to her lips— the same fingers that had brought her such pleasure just a moment ago. 

“Open,” he says. It is a command not a question. She surprises herself by obediently taking his fingers into her mouth. The taste does not please or displease her, but she enjoys watching Basim’s ravenous expression as, unbidden, she thoroughly licks his fingers clean and then gives him a wicked grin.

“Is there something you want?” Eivor asks teasingly, slowly and deliberately rolling her hips against his. “You need only  _ ask  _ for it, Basim.” 

Although he returns her salacious smile, he shakes his head slowly. 

“You are temptation made flesh, Wolf-Kissed, but tonight was my gift to you.” He tilts his head, considering his next words, and smirks when he finds them. “Think of it as a taste of what might be, hm? Next time, I will have you on your knees.”

“You are so sure there will be a next time.” Eivor cannot help but laugh at his utter self-assurance. “Your pride would amaze the gods.”

“I’m afraid you are quite mistaken, my dear. It is not pride in myself that drives my certainty, but rather my understanding of you.” He leans forward, and she shivers as his lips brush her ear. “That is why my words are not an invitation but a promise.”

Beneath her show of nonchalant bravado, Eivor wants to melt at his words. They linger in her ears and strike a chord deep inside her, ringing true in a way she is wary to explore and determined not to admit. 

“Oh, you know me so well after a few short months, do you?” She tries for a lighthearted smile. Unexpectedly, Basim does not call her obvious bluff. His face, instead, turns somewhat grave. 

“You truly have no idea,” he murmurs, searching for something in her eyes. She does not know what he looks for, and does not know whether relief or disappointment flickers behind his amber eyes when he cannot find whatever it is. “It may as well be that I have known you for a lifetime, Eivor.” 

“I did not take you for the sentimental type,” she says, cocking her head to one side. 

He smiles wistfully. “The world is a vast, chaotic place full of thousands of people brought together by the invisible threads of fate or chance. Is it not possible that one such meeting may echo another? Parallel lives suspended in time.” 

“It is a pretty riddle but a murky one.” She shakes her head in bemusement. “Perhaps you should be the one to craft the poems and I should take up the cause of the Hidden Ones.” 

“That would be something to behold, indeed.”

“Could you imagine the look on Hytham’s face?” 

Foreheads pressed together, they share a moment of laughter, genuine and easy. For the first time in days, Eivor’s heart feels light. Perhaps there is a truth buried somewhere in Basim’s cryptic words after all. Perhaps they are souls bound together by the strangeness of fate, and that is why each moment of this evening has come as naturally as breathing. 

Weariness and the soothing darkness of midnight weighs heavily on both of them, and soon enough their exchanges of words grow more infrequent and lapse into amiable silence. Somehow, they end up sprawled out on the makeshift bed of furs, Basim draped over Eivor. His weight is constricting but not crushing, and she feels grounded. Safe. Protected. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she murmurs sleepily into his silk-soft hair.

“If you wish it.” 

“Yes.” 

Before she drifts into the oblivion of sleep, she swears she feels his lips curve into a smile against her neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is hard, but this pair is so underrated and deserves more works. Please let me know what you think! All feedback welcome :)
> 
> Oh and btw, title comes from one of the anomaly dialogues where Loki says he refuses to give Havi a view of him on his knees. A little role reversal for ya


End file.
